The Letters of Arcturus
by porcellian330
Summary: This Expressionistic novel takes the form of letters, through which the story of one Hogwarts student is given the same magic I feel like I find in the original series. Arcturus, talented, young, and eager, is the best friend of Alphard Black, with whom he has more in common than he thinks. A world building story.
1. Letter 1

I haven't been sleeping well lately. Something about the last few days, when I went outside in the snow, hasn't been settling well with me. It's not like it's usually been around here. I've only been here at school for a semester; it's lovely, but really, I can't help but think that something is missing; That some part of me is, at least in some way, held back. I look down at my books and think to myself about all the things I've already accomplished in the past few months, and it only dawns on me after so long of an introspection that there isn't that much time left in this year.

Hogwarts has been a blessing for me. I can still clearly remember the first time I walked into the long, carved and curated stone corridors of the main entrance to the castle. I can still smell the soft dripping of wax off the candles around me as I made my way with the rest of the first year students into the main hall, which to me at the time meant a world of fascination, as it filled with the evening's gloriously red sunset and faded to a fulfilling darkness as the time went on.

It wasn't that long ago that I had no idea what was important to me here at school. Only so long ago, it was always a question for me as to where I planned on going, or what I planned on studying, yet all since a single house; the house of my forefathers. I'll get back to that part.

As the students and I made our way onto the train earlier that day, I remember so vividly looking around in wonder at all the varieties of people that were going to join me on my adventure to school. There was the black, curly hair of two sisters that sounded distinctly rougher than everyone else, who later revealed themselves as Moroccans, who had been married into a witch's family after the father, a successful muggle businessman, had been courted and enchanted by her uniqueness, and then later had to deal with the question of magical children, or which Hogwarts, and our train ride aboard the slick red bow of the arrow pointing towards the future, the falling sun, for us so clearly grew to represent, there was the trio of young, icy stares originating from the Rowle sisters, who were now great, open minded people, at least in my eyes, there was the shaggy demeanor of the solitary flaming, ablaze locks of Septimus, who sleeps at this moment silently across the room from me, there was the already best friends of McLeary, and Hamilton, who, looking across the platform with conniving gestures, still stained green along their clothes from their antics that morning, undoubtedly, drew an immediate smile across my face, and of course, most importantly of all, there was my aunt, who I knew from the start by her proud, high, and aristocratic cheekbones and piercing blue eyes as someone that was related to myself.

Alphard stood at her side. I don't see much of Alphard, but I do think of him a lot. We sat next to each other on the train on the way here, all those months ago; I remember clearly the way in which he silently gestured to the door as the restaurateur came by to take any orders, indicating he didn't want or need anything. I grew to associate many parts of his personality with just this close encounter with him. I sensed that he understood that we were cousins, and that, to him, was almost disappointing. He didn't see me as a family member, because he didn't already know about me, and as he went home once during the first term for his health, I'm confident he checked the tapestry in his house, the same one that exists in mine, the same on that is spread across the wide wall in front of me in front of my desk, especially moved there on my own accord, to see if I was who he thought I was.

He found nothing, I know, but we both still know the truth. I am almost as sickly as he is. While Alphard towers over the rest of our class with his slight, I see to him eye to eye. He inherited his father's grey eyes, with just a hint of his mother's blue in them, but enough to color them more than mine. When he nodded in class, his long black locks of hair bent down over his forehead, tracing the well organized face of someone who seemed always at the outside as organized as their family tree was.

As we sat across from each other in the train, I know he looked at me. I've written a lot about it. I just looked out of the window, clutching my newfound wand from the days shopping, and hoping that he looked closer at me, hoping that he'd understand what I understand in the sharpness of clarity of a single fleeting moment before on the platform.

"Would you like anything, young sir?" The server asked me.

"Yes, yes please," I began. "I would like a hot chocolate."

"Two knuts."

I drank in silence the whole drive to school. It didn't seem like the rowdiness of the rest of our class was capable of penetrating our cabin in the train. Alphard, directly across from me, in his dark black suit, looking all too serious for a young child, and me, with my long dress robes, also black, must have been intimidating to the other, more sociable children.

Alphard never changed. He continued to stay aloof, and he continued to nod his head and let his soft hair cascade over his face, silently, every day during our classes together. I grew to be friends with everyone in my common room, and eventually, all those around me that wanted to be friendly. I loved having friends, but Alphard always seemed like he didn't need any.

This I could understand; but whenever he looked at me at breakfast, as he filled his cup full of the same grey tea, he always looked at me, and he always said something in that morning routine. No matter where we sat, for that first term, we always shared a knowing look. We knew we were cousins, even if his family did not want to admit it. Even if the haughty, tall mistress that was Alphard's mother ever dared to admit the fact that Arcturus Potter went to the same school as her son, she would never allow her son to do the same. It was only a gesture of goodwill for him to recognize me everyday, and yet something that I took very seriously in the way in which we interacted with each other; primarily, because it was the only way. There was no other time in the day in which one could have talked to Alphard, anyway, because he was so busy being alone.


	2. Letter 2

What's his name again? He thought to himself. The boy, that one over there: the one that's standing behind the black desk in the classroom you're standing just outside of. What's his name?

Arcturus. Oh, right— the one that no one talks about. The one that used to keep to himself. Yes, we all loved Arcturus, always a pleasure to be around. In fact, when we used to get to know each other at the beginning of the school year, we all fancied ourselves friends with Potter. But then things started to change. The snake thing didn't help, not at all. Actually, in my personal opinion, it was the faucets that were the last straw, but we can also insist on the snake episode being important.

Potter stuck his nose into the wrong gang, that's all.

Arcturus was at one point a very sweet, mindful young child, a student just like the rest of us, he thought. A student that was simply determined to become the best he could be, in a world that wanted to see him do anything but that. But in reality, that really wasn't the case. Potter was always "better" than us, as he triumphantly was told at the end of the year by the teachers. Yes, it was the Potter kid, the one that we're looking at right now, that probably singlehandedly one that cup for Gryffindor that year. It wasn't even the fact that he was really smart, but rather, the fact that he was always in the right place at the right time. And of course, that he could talk to snakes.

—

As he paced further, he saw within the classroom one more time. He saw Arcturus looking at something, and craned his neck to find out what it was.

 _"Septimus!"_

He started. Why did he always know he was there?

"Septimus, what are you doing?" Arcturus asked quietly, not wanting to, I don't know, scare Septimus, him, off.

"I was just wondering what you were looking at," Septimus assented. "It looked really interesting."

"Yeah, it's this painting. Come check it out!" A smile played over Arcturus' face.

"I think I'm going to go back to the common room, actually. Got some work that needs to be done. You know, for the transfiguration exam tomorrow."

"No, Septimus, that''s just it! This is basically all the answers. Come look!" Arcturus insisted.

"Fine!"

I walked over, and stared up at the tapestry that splayed itself across the stone wall that Arcturus stood before.

"What am I looking at?"

"Have you ever wanted to be an animal, Septimus?" Asked Arcturus quietly.

"No, why?" Septimus answered quietly. The tapestry showed a young wizard staring up into a tapestry, which looked far into the distance.

"I think if you learned to do it, you'd be able to ace that test we have tomorrow."

"Why's that? And what, what do you mean by turning into an animal?"

"Well, if you can turn into an animal, Septimus, then you can make yourself do all sorts of magic, can't you? I've read that people have to be brilliant to be able to transfigure themselves into being an animal. So if you start there, it's like starting at the top of the ladder. What do you think? Make sense?" Arcturus smiled, brushing his light hair out of his eyes.

"I hate your jokes, Arcturus." Septimus wasn't pleased.

I wasn't pleased. So as you looked on, Arcturus said something more.

"Please, it's not a joke. I really think we could do it. Just look!"

What was the tapestry doing? The colors on the tapestry within, that the student was craning for a look at, were shifting, making themselves into something else. I suddenly remembered where I was. I was, without a doubt, in the classroom I'd been in yesterday. This was our divination classroom, and that tapestry was never there.

"The tapestry shows what's going to happen, don't you see?" Arcturus whispered. "Look!"

The colors in Septimus' eyes slimmed, as his pupils grew bigger in awe. He stared at the colors in the tapestry, which, inside the image set within, formed a second student, who looked at a mirror. The mirror showed something odd. It showed a small fox, prancing in a classroom.

"I think I need to go, Arcturus. Something about this doesn't feel right."

"Please?" I asked.

"No, I'm sorry."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"I can do this?"

"You understand?"

"With you, then," Septimus sighed.

"With you," Arcturus said, grabbing Septimus by the collar. The two leapt into the tapestry, and Septimus screamed. Arcturus laughed, and laughed, and then, just as they thought they couldn't fall farther, they fell sideways; and all of a sudden, they tumbled back into a classroom, with the billowing sound of a carpet behind them.

"What do you think?" Arcturus asked.

Septimus smiled, then knew what he had to do. He closed his eyes, then let himself go; he didn't care anymore what they said about Arcturus. He loved this kind of stuff.

Septimus opened his eyes, and looked around the room, searching through all the legs of the chairs and desks for Arcturus. He spotted him: standing solitarily at the front of the room, with his short, young mane beginning to overflow his shoulders. Somehow, Septimus knew.

 _"You look great as a fox,"_ Arcturus laughed.

I knew I shouldn't have done it, Arcturus thought. It was really risky, and we're both first years. But I just loved the look of fascination on both of our faces. I loved looking in his eyes, and seeing something that I saw in my own; I loved sharing something with someone that was so fleeting, so impossible to grasp if it didn't find itself on the stake of trust and daring. It was this fleeting cognizance that made me want to do it, and break the rules.

It was past dark by then; and we broke the rules more. We ran out of the castle together, having unlocked a whole new world, and Septimus and I were friends again. It was why I loved him. He would always be the one I could turn to for someone to rely on, even if it meant that we were both simply suspects for being blood supremacists and class cheaters. I didn't care. I was happy.

That's how I feel even now, as I write this. It's difficult to write, or even, as some would say, impossible. No memory is perfect. And no written memory of anything will be perfect either. I tried to listen from the other side at the beginning of this entry, my dear friend, because I wanted myself to know, or to think I knew, what it really meant to be an audience to myself, so that one day, long from now, I can imagine again what it felt like, racing through the night, chasing our fears, bringing new skills to bear, bringing new light to our world; the first year.


End file.
